


Vigile Pascale (Easter Vigil)

by PericulaLudus



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Easter, Friendship, Gen, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 05:16:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6410338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cold and dreary night in a remote corner of France sees the musketeers attend the Easter vigil at an abbey in Brittany. Unable to understand much Latin, Porthos observes the men who are dearest to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vigile Pascale (Easter Vigil)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meysun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meysun/gifts).



> For my darling friend Meysun as a small Thank you for the amazing week in Brittany and the stunning experience of an Easter vigil.

A tree-lined road might be perfectly lovely in the summer, but on a cold and dreary evening in March the only thing it did was to drip cold and dreary raindrops unto cold and dreary musketeers. Not that it mattered. They were already soaked to the bone.

Porthos shook himself as a particularly large drop hit him straight in the eye. As if it wasn't difficult enough to find their way in the dark.

It would be worth it though.

Aramis was in the lead, obviously eager to reach the abbey that was hiding somewhere in the forest of this particularly remote and cheerless part of France. To be fair, it hadn't been Aramis who initiated this excursion. He knew the urgency of their mission to Brittany too well to even try and ask for a delay of several hours to attend mass.

Athos had asked some unsuspecting farmer for a place to attend the Easter Vigil. The poor chap had almost jumped out of his boots at the sight of four musketeers, but finally directed them towards this cold and dreary forest that apparently contained an undoubtedly similarly cold and dreary abbey.

They left their horses in the remarkably warm and comfortable stables and walked across the courtyard to the church. It was small and unassuming, built with the grey stone so typical for this region. In front of it, a crowd had gathered around a large fire. As they joined the congregation, Porthos stretched like a cat, feeling the warmth of the flames on his face.

Aramis sighed contentedly and relaxed, immediately at peace. D'Artagnan was bouncing on the balls of his feet, looking around the circle. Women, men, and children, old and young, the whole area seemed to have turned out for the occasion. D'Artagnan's joy was mirrored in their faces.

Porthos looked across to Athos and found his face cast in deep shadows.

Their mission was going as well as could be expected when you were tasked with convincing a prominent Huguenot leader to fight for his sovereign once more. All things considered, this journey was going well. Well enough for Athos to permit them this rest.

One of the monks lit a humongous candle on the bonfire. That thing could probably see a family through the whole winter. Aramis had explained that it was a symbol of eternal life and that that was more important than lighting a home.

They all walked inside and each got their own little candle that was lit on the big one. Slowly, the whole church was lit up. It was beautiful in its simplicity. Porthos didn't know which order it belonged to, but it sure looked like one resigned to poverty.

There was some chanting and then somebody must have given the sign to find themselves seats because everyone started moving. Porthos followed Athos. Athos knew such things.

It was beautiful to see how Aramis melted into the reverent atmosphere. He looked softer somehow, more content, in the flickering light of the candles. D'Artagnan visibly tried to follow his example, but couldn't keep his eyes from darting this way and that, making his candle lean precariously, the flame sputtering.

Athos waited to let them all file into a pew towards the back of the church. As Porthos sat, he noticed that Athos carried himself very stiffly. His back was as straight as if he had just swallowed his blade and his gaze was fixed onto the candle he held. It was not until he heard Athos release a heavy breath as soon as they had set aside their candles that Porthos realised that Athos had been afraid to extinguish the everlasting fire.

Christ might be light and life, but for Athos it was yet another burden, one he took personally and was sure he'd fail to carry.

Athos rarely failed at anything except meeting his own expectations.

Athos had been in full son of the nobility mode the past few days, talking swiftly and convincingly to the errant officer. Pompous ass that Duc de Rohan. And a traitor where Porthos was concerned. The king might have forgotten La Rochelle, but Porthos still saw the scars on his friends' bodies. But they had their orders and Athos for one could be trusted to follow them no matter how uncomfortable. He had been magnificent.

The readings began. There were always lots of bits from the bible that were being read out. Aramis had once explained the significance of each to Porthos, but it was difficult to keep that straight. One Latin verse sounded much like the next.

That one had to be the creation of the world. The priest kept reading the same sentence again and again.

Et vidit Deus quod esset bonum.

God saw that it was good, or something like that. Looking down the pew, Porthos had to agree. This was very good indeed. They were all here together, healthy and not wanting for anything except for maybe some dry underpants. God had certainly done a good job creating rain. The other three seemed unperturbed by wetness in sensitive areas and listened carefully.

Porthos was the only one who did not speak any Latin. Athos was fluent and constantly correcting minor grammatical errors. Aramis seemed to know most of the bible by heart and d'Artagnan had at least enjoyed lessons by the parish priest as a boy.

Porthos understood very little and just lost himself in the even rhythm of the monk's voice. He caught the occasional word. God, obviously, that was very frequent, but there were also some names.

One reading was about Abraham. That was the guy who almost sacrificed his own son. Porthos couldn't imagine that. But for all that he felt safe and welcome here, when he looked at Athos he found one who looked like he was being led to the slaughter. Porthos regretted sitting so far away from his friend.

They read and they chanted and Porthos tried to join in whenever he could. Aramis knew it all, of course, and while d'Artagnan was desperately off key, nobody could fault his enthusiasm.

Athos was silent.

Eventually, the bells were rung and that bit always made Porthos a bit teary eyed, being full of such pathos and grace. Two young monks pulled the ropes and far above their heads the bells sounded, proclaiming to all the world that they were here and celebrating Christ together.

Porthos still could not believe that he was part of this.

Of course he had been to church before he joined the army, but never like this, like he was actually somebody who belonged here.

It had helped to go with others who clearly belonged. Going to church with fellow soldiers was different. But it had been Aramis who had finally made him feel like a part of the family rather than just the bastard child who snuck into the House of the Lord without permission. Thanks to his patient explanations, Porthos knew what to expect and even though he did not understand every word, he had some idea of the proceedings.

The long thing with the saints was next. Lots and lots of saints. The priest read a name and the congregation asked that saint to pray for them. It was always the same rhythm all the way through the long list of angels and apostles and everything, but Porthos knew to listen carefully.

Saint Matthew

Saint Simon

And then there he was!

Saint Jude

Porthos clutched his amulet and sang the Ora pro nobis at the top of his lungs. That earned him a surprised glance from d'Artagnan who looked like he had been about to fall asleep. Porthos grinned at him. It was pointless to try and give him an explanation over the assembled chanting voices, so Porthos merely pointed to his necklace.

Saint Jude, patron saint of lost causes

His guidance and intervention had done him the world of good.

They exchanged the sign of peace and Porthos was fortunate enough to catch a hesitant smile from Athos as d'Artagnan beamed at him. Porthos himself set aside all decorum and pushed the other two aside to embrace Athos. He remained stiff in his arms.

A monk, elderly and completely bald, made a beeline for Athos. Athos looked alarmed and if such a thing was even possible, Porthos felt him tense even more. There were no words, merely a shake of the hand, but something happened nonetheless. A soft, gentle hand in Athos' rough and calloused one; and somehow Athos smiled, a shy and fearful thing, and the monk smiled too, all crinkly lines and astonishingly blue eyes that seem to look straight into the soul.

When most around them kneeled, Porthos remained standing, simply bowing his head in respect. He knew Athos would not take a knee, and he did not want him to be alone in that. God would understand. Porthos had been the target of ridicule for long enough to try and keep a friend safe.

There were those who stared when he went up to the priest. There always were. But he went with his brothers and nobody stared for long at three musketeers, not even in a church, certainly not in a far-off province such as this where their mere presence was enough to alarm people. It was better in the cities and at the coast where people from all corners of the world mingled, but here... they were unused to people like him, he told himself, not hostile.

Let them stare.

He was part of something larger.

Athos received most of the stares when he did not partake in the sacrament. His head was bowed respectfully, but he would not let himself go and take of the wine and the bread.

Porthos felt for him. The judge that sat in Athos' heart was harsh and cruel.

But something had happened that night. In the end, Athos joined them in song and it was beautiful. His voice was strong and melodious, and it truly was a shame that they hardly ever got to hear it, not unless somebody was dreadfully ill. But ultimately Porthos doesn't care about one more voice in their mismatched little choir. Much more beautiful than any music was the knowledge that they were all part of this now, that the four of them truly shared this moment.

They left as soon as they were able to drag Aramis away from the monks. They had lost three hours and knew they would have to ride through a large part of the rest of the night. At least the rain had stopped and their clothes had had time to dry a little.

But much more importantly, they had gained a whole lot in this time.

They each carried a flame that would never go out, but from time to time that too needed to be nourished.


End file.
